All Chapters of Bound By The Missing Hours: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

2 Days PriorI was walking toward the office, the pavement cold beneath my feet, when my life fractured once more.For two agonizing years, I had fought tooth and nail to suture the wound left by the loss of Alex—my dearest friend, my first love. He had been killed protecting me, shielding me from the blow meant for me.The last thing I ever saw of him was the sorrow and fierce determination burning in his brown eyes. He had soundlessly motioned me to stay hidden, to be silent, to let him face the brutal cost alone. I heard the sickening thud, then the rustle of the killer’s hurried retreat. When I finally moved, pushing open the adjoining storage room door he had slammed shut behind me, the sight was a panel ripped straight from a nightmare. My scream was primal, a sound I hoped I’d never hear again.Even now, the memory is a clawing terror. A silent scream tears at the back of my throat, and my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against the armor of my ribs. Therapy had finally subdued t

I sat alone in the stark, sterile interrogation room, frantically rubbing my wrists. The cuffs—Ote's personalised touch—had finally been taken off, but the throbbing pain and the livid red welts on my skin remained. That man had a deeply personal, toxic vendetta against me. We had clashed the first time we met, and ever since, I had sculpted my entire existence around avoiding him and anything to do with law enforcement. Yet here I was, two years later, in the same cold chair, under the same cold, unforgiving fluorescent lights, the scent of fear and stale air clinging to the cheap vinyl.I reached for the plastic cup of water on the table, my fingers trembling slightly, then recoiled instantly, snatching my hand back. Don't touch anything you don't need to. Don't leave prints. Don't give them a single scrap of leverage. The ingrained paranoia was total and instantaneous, a defence mechanism sharper than any blade.My head snapped up as the door opened. Officer Net walked in, looking

The walk back from the river was a frantic, adrenaline-fueled blur, the cool, damp air doing little to soothe the internal fire of anxiety. I clutched the borrowed jacket, its woolen texture the only solid thing connecting me to Officer Net’s faint, unsettling kindness. The moment I left the river’s calming presence, the desperate need to verify the impossible—the text, the prophecy, the terrifyingly familiar face of Alex—became an unbearable physical ache.I ran the final few blocks, navigating the deserted streets like a phantom. When I reached the familiar drive, I skidded to a stop.My uncle's car was gone.The space beside my own tired vehicle was empty, the gravel undisturbed. A cold, sick dread, far heavier than the weight of Ote’s accusations, seized my throat. My uncle was methodical. He was my protector, the quiet anchor in my chaotic life. He would never leave a cryptic text and then vanish, especially not after calling me back from the police station and supposedly usherin

The small room was heavy with the scent of smoldering herbs and a strange, primal earthiness. The woman, the shaman, leaned into the dim, flickering light of the candle, her ancient eyes appearing to contain the wisdom of centuries."Your past is complex, your future predetermined," she declared, her voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in my chest.A sudden chill of apprehension traced a path down my spine. "What exactly do you mean?" I asked, the sheer shock stealing my breath. I had sought this place out, driven by a singular, immediate terror—the haunting recent violence and the unsolved murder that had consumed my life. This unforeseen declaration felt like the ground shifting beneath me, hinting at something vast and profoundly unsettling.The shaman’s intense gaze held me captive. "You are fated to walk this earth until your final hour, but you will not walk it alone. A profound, misplaced love—one thought lost to time—will return at the precise moment your need

Your life will never be normal again.Those words, spoken with brutal, quiet certainty by the man who had been dead for two years, echoed in the hollow space of my mind. They weren't a warning; they were a statement of fact, already proven true the moment I saw him standing in my living room.I worked quickly, mechanically. My large suitcase—the one usually reserved for weeks-long photography assignments—lay open on the bed. My movements were a blur of efficiency as I filled it: first, my essential camera equipment, nestled safely in protective foam; then a small, tightly rolled stack of my most comfortable, durable clothes; finally, a dozen or so reference books—the ones on ancient rituals, local folklore, and criminal profiling that had become my lonely companions over the last twenty-four months.What could he possibly mean? And why was I so unnervingly calm in accepting the absolute impossibility staring me in the face? Alex, my Alex, was back. Not only had he returned, but he had